


Hot Cocoa and a Hot-Line

by Amuly



Category: Marvel 616
Genre: Cold Weather, Domestic, Domestic Avengers, Domestic Fluff, Family, Kidfic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-13
Updated: 2015-11-13
Packaged: 2018-05-01 11:29:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5204096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amuly/pseuds/Amuly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After behind forced to move to New York from Florida with her dads, Bucky isn't adjusting so well. Sure, school is fine, and there's loads of superheroes in the city, which is cool she guesses. But it's <i>freezing</i> up in this damn city, and it's only <i>November</i>!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hot Cocoa and a Hot-Line

The water was as hot as she could stand it, but it still wasn't hot enough. Bucky scrubbed ineffectually at herself, skin flush with too-hot spray but bones still aching with the cold.

How did anyone live above twenty degrees longitude? Was this all some sort of prank the rest of the world was playing on her?

Bucky stayed in the shower too long--longer than she even wanted to, but she had figured out a trick a couple days ago. Bucky combed her fingers through her hair as she waited, time ticking up in her head. See, the longer she stayed in the shower, the more her little bathroom filled up with steam. And the warmer it was when she finally had to step out.

Eventually Bucky lost patience with standing around doing nothing, no matter how warm she was. She flipped off the water and squeezed out her hair. Wrapping her overly-fluffy towel around herself, Bucky tip-toed out of the shower. Her toes sank into her shower mat, instinctively curling into the shag away from the open air. Bucky had abandoned any semblance at a spartan lifestyle in Florida. Along with daylight. And warmth.

At least the air in the bathroom was almost warm, thanks to Bucky's (probably horribly wasteful) trick. She sighed and unwrapped the towel from herself to scrub at her hair. As she tugged on her giant, high-collared cotton bathrobe, Bucky came to a decision. This cold couldn't continue. It was inhumane! She would have to talk to Dad.

"Dad!!"

Luckily Dad was exactly where Bucky had left him: poking around on his laptop at the kitchen table. Bucky didn't miss the way he switched screens when she walked in. He has been up to something lately, ever since Pop had taken the pilot job for the new Captain America. But that was none of Bucky's business--or, more accurately, she didn't care to _make_ it her business until this whole cold weather problem had been dealt with.

"Dad," she stated as she slid into the seat alongside him. "We need to talk."

Dad looked a little startled, attention snapping away from his laptop. "Yes?"

"It's about New York."

Dad looked a little less alarmed, nodding his head for her to go on.

"It's too cold."

Dad blinked. Then he laughed, before he could help himself. Bucky scowled at him.

"I'm serious. There must be something wrong."

Dad shook his head helplessly. "No, this is... about it, peanut. It's how it's always been."

"You're not cold?"

Dad laughed. "Oh, I never said that! A dozen years in Florida, another five years or so wandering around the hottest states in the continuous Union... I'm freezing my discs off, you kidding me? But the thermometer tells me New York's the same as it ever was. I'm the one that wimped out."

Bucky groaned and lolled forward, knocking her head against the kitchen table. The table top was cold. She whimpered.

A warm hand on her back, chasing away some of the cold. Her dad rubbed her back for a minute as she wallowed. But he never let her get away with it for long.

"I thought you liked the cold? Just last week you were so excited that your pumpkin hadn't rotted yet. And you have all those cool new clothes we picked out. You love jackets!"

Lifting her head just enough to turn it, Bucky stared mournfully up at her dad. Maybe if she looked pathetic enough her dads would fix everything for her, like they always did. "Yeah, but last week was Halloween, so that was _something_. Now there's _nothing_ , just cold and rain and ugly brown leaves."

"We'll have snow soon. You always wanted to live somewhere with snow."

Dramatically Bucky curled one hand up to the ceiling. "But at what _cost_?"

Dad snorted. "What about all the superheroes? Have you spotted any on your own yet?"

Bucky scowled. "Yeah, I did, actually."

Dad's face twisted up into that funny expression it got whenever superheroes and Bucky were in the same sentence. Like excited and scared were fighting for control of his mouth. "And?"

"There was a convenience store robbery right in front of me! But before I could even _do_  anything-" one look at Dad's face, where 'horrified' was clearly winning over 'excited', and Bucky amended her statement "-like call the police or something, you know." Dad scowled at her, totally unconvinced. Oh well. "Anyway, before anyone could do anything, Spider-Man was there! Webbed up the guys and left. And then, thirty seconds later, that new Ms. Marvel girl showed up, looking around all confused that she was too late. The city is freaking crawling with superheroes!"

Dad snorted and shrugged. "Can't really argue that. But it's good to have a whole network of do-gooders, you know. Then everything doesn't fall to you."

"More like _nothing_ falls to me..." Bucky grumbled. Glancing up at Dad, she pointed out: "you know, that new Ms. Marvel didn't look much older than me."

Dad smacked her lightly upside the head. Bucky laughed and winced. Jerk dad. "Yeah, well: I'm not Ms. Marvel's dad." Dad paused, face screwing up real funny. "I'm glad Carol didn't hear me say that. Still weird."

"I miss Florida," Bucky mumbled. Because she did, suddenly she _did_ , with a fierce intensity she hadn't realized she would. She rubbed her face against her robe and hunched her shoulders, doing her best job at disappearing within its folds.

Dad's face cracked a little, until it settled on smiling sadly at her. "That's normal, peanut. But your pops is happy up here, working with Sam. And whatever makes your pops happy makes me happy." Bending down until they were eye-to-eye, Dad smiled that gross smile of his, that Pop-and-I-love-getting-our-mack-on smile of his. "And Pops is very, VERY happy."

Bucky hissed and burrowed down further in her robe. Dad laughed and poked at her as she tried to squirm away.

"Daddy and Popa, sitting in a tree! K-I-S-S-I-N-G," Dad chanted, fingers darting around to tickle at Bucky's sides.

"Gross, gross, you're old and gross!"

"Who's old and gross?"

Dad stopped poking Bucky at that, Pop's voice sending him leaping out of his chair to rush Pop at the kitchen doorway. Bucky groaned and ducked her head as they kissed, gross and in love and happy and gross.

"We are," Dad told Pop, apparently taking a break from kissing long enough to answer Pop's question.

"Oh!" Pop smiled. "I suppose we are." He grabbed Dad from behind, pulling hm into a bear-snuggle. Dad almost pretended to struggle, for about half a second, before he relaxed into the hug. Pop stuck his chin on Dad's shoulder and smiled happily over at Bucky. "So? What's up, doc? School okay?"

Bucky rolled her eyes and sighed, staring out the kitchen window. The sky was already dark and it wasn't even six o'clock yet. Bucky pouted at her pop. "It's too cold. I hate New York."

Pop frowned. "But it's not even winter yet."

Bucky's eyes went wide. Oh no. Pop was right. It _wasn't_ winter yet. This was just the cold of _fall_. She still had all of winter to suffer through! And if spring was as cold as fall, then there was _that_ , too! Bucky groaned and slipped down inside her bathrobe. This sucked, this sucked, this sucked.

Her dads were quiet for a moment--probably exchanging _looks_ like they did--until heavy boot steps crossed the kitchen tiles. Pop, then, since Dad was in bare feet. Pop settled down into the chair next to her without a word, just sitting in silence. Finally Bucky peered out from the folds of her robe. Pop's beard, and smile, were waiting for her.

"I was talking about you today. At work."

Bucky did her best to keep looking miserable. Even though 'work' meant Uncle Sam, which meant superheroing. Bucky sighed and dug her thumbnail into the side of the kitchen table disinterestedly. "So?"

" _So_ ," Pop drew the word out. "You know how much Uncle Sam loves you. And he was thinking--not my idea, believe me--but he was thinking maybe you could have a little after school job. Just a couple nights a week sort of thing."

Bucky kept her head down, though her heart was racing. "It's not heroing, you would never let me do heroing."

"There's lots of ways to be a hero," Dad reminded her, from across the kitchen. And yeah, that's what Dad always said, ever since he hung up his giant belt buckle and stun discs. But he just said that because he _couldn't_ hero anymore, because it was a health risk. Bucky's eyelashes fluttered as she looked back to Pop, breath catching. She could be a hero. A real hero. She was healthy, and young--and not _that_ young, no younger than Cassie when she started with the Young Avengers, no more than a year. And older than Gertie, out in LA. She could do this.

"It's support team work. Not going out and getting yourself hurt," Pop told her sternly. "But it is working with Sam. Sort of. He needs people to help run the hotline, just like Dad and I used to. And he can always use a spare set of eyes."

"That he can pay below minimum," Dad added with a snort.

Bucky shivered, not feeling the cold for the first time tonight. Her mind buzzed, happy excitement a crescendo of white noise, drowning out any chance of rational thought. "I... I can... I can..."

"You _can't_ go running off by yourself, though. That's the rules. For _everybody_ who works the hotline. Sam has to be able to trust that the people receiving the messages aren't going to cut out in front of him, aren't going to try and take things into their own hands. I told him I wasn't sure if it should be you-"

"It can be me! I can do it!" Bucky cut him off, voice high and scared. She knew she was being played, to a certain degree, but they couldn't just dangle this out in front of her and then take it away. She could do this, she could be a good girl and not get into trouble. And then, one day... She clenched her fists, robe slipping down over her hands. "I can do this. I can help with the hotline."

Pop nodded, beard hairs rustling against each other as he smiled big. "Alright. I'll talk to Sam, then. We'll set you up with your laptop over the next couple weeks."

Dad stepped forward, expression a good deal more serious than Pop's. But it always was, when it came to heroing. "Bucky. You have to _promise_ -"

"I will, I do!" Bucky cut him off, breathless. She knew the talk, she'd been getting the talk since she was three years old. "I won't go off, I promise. I'll do this, and I'll do it right, and I won't go being stupid on my own. I know."

Dad nodded before leaning forward to press a kiss to her wet hair. Bucky pretended not to notice the way his hand shook as he petted her neck.

Pop was still smiling at her as Dad pulled away. "Well, that's problem number one sorted. Problem number two: you're cold?"

She _was_ still cold. In spite of the fire in her veins Pop's job offer had ignited, the apartment was still far too cold and the sky dark. Bucky nodded.

Pop clapped his hands together, looking up at Jack. "Well, come on. Let's brew something up to chase off that cold."

Dad frowned at Pop for a minute, before his eyes slid to their liquor cabinet. Pop roared with laughter as he climbed out of his chair. He grabbed Dad by the shoulder and shook him lightly. "I mean hot chocolate and marshmallows. She's thirteen, Jack."

"You're the one getting her a job with Captain America," Dad grumbled, rubbing a hand sheepishly over the back of his neck. "How am I supposed to know what's age-appropriate anymore?"

"Shh. You get the marshmallows." Pop leaned in for a kiss, which Dad was totally suckered by, of course. "I'll brew up the cocoa."

"Cinnamon," Dad mumbled, though he was distractedly leaning in for another kiss. Bucky wrinkled her nose and looked away.

"That's a new one..."

"No, I mean: We should get out the cinnamon sticks. To stir. Do we have any?"

Ten minutes later, Bucky found herself snuggled under a mountain of blankets in front of the fireplace, hot cocoa warming her palms almost to the point of discomfort. She sighed happily. Her bones _almost_ felt warm again, finally. For the first time in a month.

Dad and Pop sat on the couch behind her, talking in hushed tones about work or whatever, one blanket spread over the both of them. Bucky let them to it as she stared into the fire, feeling her cheeks gone red with its heat, woody smell almost overpowering the smell of her hot cocoa and cinnamon in her hands.

She didn't pay too much attention as Dad and Pop's tones changed, growing even more quiet, as Dad pulled out his laptop. Or the way Pop sounded worried, and Dad angry. It was their business, and now Bucky had her own to worry about. Bucky sipped at her cocoa, throat hot, tongue scalded. The Captain America hotline. Pop had run it, back in the day. Maybe, in just a couple years, she'd be running it too. And from there, well: not like Pop had stayed on the sidelines, that was for sure.


End file.
